Toblethorpe Manor (27 page)

He and the Carstairs discussed their plans for the autumn, when, in Lucy’s words, the “fateful six months” would have run their course. Charles reported that Rosalind appeared to have completely regained her health and peace of mind, and he would have no qualms about trying to arrange a meeting with the Carstairs again.

Richard had persuaded Tony to invite himself and his family to his Leicestershire estate, Disford Wood, at the beginning of the hunting season.

“And Harry shall invite Major Bowen and Miss Stuart,” he had proposed.

“Dash it, Richard,” the unfortunate Lord Denham had protested, “I know I said I’d decided I’m not the marryin’ sort, but to be asked to entertain both the object of my affections and my rival is the outside of enough.”

“Come on, Tony, you are a fine figure on the hunting field. Who knows but that you may win my sister after all?”

“Not at all sure that is what I want,” Lord Denham had said frankly, then added complainingly, “Oh, very well. I see I have not a leg to stand on, and I am by far too lazy to argue with you. Consider it done.”

Captain Lord Harry Graham had no objections to the plan. “Never met Charles’s cousin,” he had admitted, “but I hear she has a pretty little fortune. Might have a try there myself.”

Richard’s glower quickly dissuaded him and sowed the seeds of suspicion in the minds of both the Grahams.

“So that’s the way the wind lies,” Tony had commented thoughtfully to his brother. “I wondered, right from the moment we found her.”

Harry, of course, demanded an explanation and had to be told Miss Fell’s whole story, under seal of the strictest secrecy.

“Lord, it’s just like one of those devilish romances the ladies are always reading!” he had remarked. “Well, if a Carstairs is after the wench, I can see she is above my touch.” His grin was mischievous.

Richard’s behaviour at Toblethorpe Manor awoke the major’s suspicions also. He taxed Lucy with them and heard the whole tale as she knew it.

“And she refused him?” he asked thoughtfully. “When he offered her security, a family, a position in Society, and she had none of them, nor any hope of them. It does not sound to me as if he has much hope of winning her.”

“Let me tell you what I think,” begged Lucy. “I think she was being noble. Suspecting she might really be a governess or something, she did not want to involve Richard in a marriage he might regret. You know by now how Richard is about respectable birth.”

“You are a true romantic, my love,” Charles answered fondly. “I wish I could be so sanguine.”

“Would you approve of such a connection, Charles? I cannot think of anything more delightful, but my brother has not always been kind to you.”

“I have the greatest respect for Mr. Carstairs, and every expectation of calling him ‘brother’ in the not so far distant future. If Rosalind could like the match, I should be happy to see her settled. Otherwise, I daresay the pair of you quarrelling will drive me to distraction,” he teased.

“No, we shall not!” cried Lucy indignantly. “Oh, you are bamming me. Indeed, Charles, Rosalind and I have never quarreled. She is the dearest creature, and whatever you say I am sure she will be my sister one day.”

Richard’s feelings were closer to the major’s. He looked forward to the beginning of October with a mixture of longing and dread, uncertain whether to hope that Rosalind would know him or not. The worst possibility, he thought, was that she might once more develop the headaches, which must sunder him from her forever. The best he could imagine was the chance to woo her as a stranger, and he had no confidence that he would be any more successful this time than last.

Even as she watched Lucy bloom with the renewed assurance of Charles’s love, Lady Annabel saw her son grow more and more silent and withdrawn. After Major Bowen’s departure, he spent the greater part of every day out riding, and had to be persuaded to see any of their friends and neighbors. Unknown to her, he haunted the spot on the high moors where he had found the woman he had so painfully learned to love, torturing himself with remorse for the way he had treated her and wishing he could start over from that moment. Her grey-green eyes in her thin white face followed him about reproachfully and he found himself quite unable to imagine them smiling or laughing as he knew they had.

Had he confided in his mother, she could have reassured him that his behaviour to Miss Fell had been quite unexceptionable, indeed all that was kind and thoughtful. He did not, and Lady Annabel noted with anguish how his already spare frame grew thinner and his face almost haggard. Several times she had almost ventured to speak to him on the subject, but when Rosalind’s name was mentioned, he would say calmly only that he was very pleased at her recovery and that it would be delightful to see her again in the autumn.

Whenever Lucy played upon the pianoforte, Richard would find some excuse to leave the room. At last Lucy was driven to protest.

“I know I do not play as well as Rosalind,” she said crossly. “However, I think it most unkind in you to run away as soon as I sit down at the instrument. I have been practicing amazingly because Charles enjoys music, and the least you could do is sit still and listen.”

“I beg your pardon,” apologized Richard, smiling. “It is rude of me. Play me one of those lively tunes you perform so charmingly.”

Mollified, Lucy complied.

Both Toblethorpe and Bennendale rejoiced in a busy social life. There were picnics, outings to places of interest, evening parties where as many as six couples might stand up to dance. Rosalind and Lucy had their rural admirers, and while Lucy blithely ignored their compliments and attentions, Rosalind was bound to consider them more seriously. Charles had at last dropped some hints that he was thinking of marrying, and she had heard too many tales of the dissension caused by two females in the same household.

Two gentlemen in particular seemed likely to offer for her hand. One was a pompously pious curate, a weedy young man with one eye firmly fixed on her fifteen thousand pounds. The other was a very respectable landowner of some forty summers who had been pursuing her for nearly six years. While she could dismiss the curate, Mr. Heathercot was another matter.

She did not love him, but she was on terms of great friendship with him. He had a comfortable income, and so could be acquitted of fortune-hunting. A personable gentleman, he was kind and reliable, and devoted to her if not wildly in love with her. All the neighbors said it would be an excellent match. He had proposed to her before, and she knew he would do so again. He would make a perfectly unexceptionable husband. Why, then, did she hesitate?

Mr. Heathercot had been absent during the months of her trials with her uncle, so she could not hold his nonintervention against him. He was intelligent and conversable; Charles liked him; his home was not far from hers. In every way he was suitable, and, sighing, she admitted to herself that she would probably have him in the end. In the meantime, she enjoyed herself flirting mildly with her unsuitable followers and wished that a prince on a white charger would come along and sweep her off her feet. For some inexplicable reason, the charger had always become a chestnut by the end of her fantasies.

There were several inexplicable things in her life. One was Charlie’s reluctance to discuss with her his future bride. Another was the strange feeling that came over her whenever she played the piano, as if something or someone was hovering just beyond her grasp, The third was her unwillingness to mount a horse. Charles said it was natural, as she had been thrown and injured during her escape. She did not consider the explanation adequate, having been thrown before, but the reluctance was strong enough to make her walk or drive when she went out.

Thus it was that one hot day in late August she was returning on foot from taking lunch to Charles, who was directing the harvest. As she stepped over a stile, she heard a hail and saw Mr. Heathercot coming toward her. He turned back with her.

“You have hay in your hair,” he said, after she had explained her errand. “Pray stand still a moment and I will remove it.”

With one hand on her shoulder he carefully removed the straw, then equally carefully and gently kissed her lips.

“Rosalind, won’t you marry me?” he asked, taking both her hands. “We should deal extremely well together, you and I. I have been waiting a long time for you and have never found another woman I want to be my wife.”

“Ian, you have been very patient with me,” she replied, looking up appealingly into his face. “I am almost certain I should say yes, but not quite. I cannot accept while I have doubts; it would not be fair to you.”

“I cannot wait forever,” he said roughly.

“I do not ask it. Only a few more weeks? Charles and I are going away in October and I am sure I shall know my own mind when we return. You see, Charles may be wed himself, and then…”

“Not a very flattering reason for marrying me,” commented Mr. Heathercot dryly. “No, do not try to explain, I understand. As you wish, I shall await my fate when you return. Let us say no more until then.” He proceeded to converse on a variety of topics, giving Rosalind time to regain her composure before they reached the house, where he bade her farewell.

The curate was not so easily dealt with. Impervious to snubs and to Rosalind’s persistent efforts to avoid him, Mr. Borden was delighted, one rainy afternoon, to see her drive up beside him in a deserted lane. Common courtesy forced her to offer him a ride to his destination.

“Thank you, Miss Stuart,” he panted after an undignified clamber into the dogcart. He gave her an arch look. “Or may I call you Rosalind?”

“I do not think it would be at all the thing,” she pointed out coldly.

Not a whit abashed, Mr. Borden pressed on. “We have known each other this age, have we not?” he queried tenderly.

“Oh, quite two years, of which I spent several months incarcerated.”

The curate had the grace to look a little self-conscious. He had been conspicuous by his absence when Rosalind had been most in need of friends. He persevered, taking her hand. “I feel we are quite soul mates. The Lord has destined us for each other.”

“Mr. Borden!” said Rosalind sharply, “if you do not let go my hand I shall lose control of the horses, and we shall be overset.”

He hurried to comply, observing with displeasure that a dogcart was a vastly improper conveyance for a lady.

“When we are married you shall have a proper carriage and a coachman ready to take you about.”

“We shall not be married, and my cousin’s coach is always at my disposal. I prefer to drive.”

“You would not go against the Will of the Lord?” cried the curate. “Woman was made to be a helpmate to her husband!”

“I am not your wife!” Rosalind was growing angry, the carefully schooled temper, of which her hair was warning, rising at his assumption of her acquiescence. “And believe me, I never shall be!”

“Ah, but you are already on the shelf,” Mr. Borden remarked unwisely. “You will soon be an old maid, a most uncomfortable position for any female. I am sure a little prayer and penitence will soon make you see reason.”

Rosalind pulled up the horses. “Get out,” she said with dangerous calm. “Get out or I shall push you!”

“Well!” The curate was outraged. “What unladylike behaviour! However, I shall pray for you. I cannot believe you are serious, and I shall approach Major Bowen in the matter. I am sure he will bring you to your senses.”

He was wise enough to climb down during this speech, and Rosalind was delighted to see him step in a puddle halfway to his knee. It so much improved her temper that she was able to say good-bye quite affably as she drove off, splashing him.

By the time she reported this incident to Charles, she was able to see its funny side and had him bursting with laughter.

“The impertinent toad!” he gasped. “Don’t worry, I’ll send him away with a flea in his ear.”

“I am not even certain whether he means to complain of my indelicate behaviour, my improper vehicle or my refusal to marry him. I can only hope that the former has given him a disgust for the latter.”

“We must hope so indeed. Rosalind,” said Charles seriously, “you know I would not dream of permitting you to wed that nasty little man, but are you quite set against marriage? I had thought that Ian…”

“Ian proposed to me again. I told him I should give him my answer when we come out of Leicestershire. You need not fear that I shall stay when you are married, Charles.”

“I did not mean such a thing,” he protested. “My sweet Lucy is sure she will love you as I do, and there is no reason for you to leave. It is only that I am so happy myself in her love that I would wish the same for you, my dearest cousin.”

“I doubt I am cut out for love, Charlie. Ian will suit me very well and we shall plan marriages between our children.”

“You do not love him? No, I know that you do not.” He sighed. “Well, we shall see. Perhaps it would be for the best.”

Later, he told Rosalind about his interview with Mr. Borden. “He was up in arms about all your failings, Ros, and seemed to expect that I should come the heavy father and order you to marry him. Why he wants to when he has such a low opinion of you, I cannot guess. I tried to match his indignation, in your behalf of course, but was overcome with laughter. He was very much insulted and vowed he’d not enter our doors again.”

“Darken our portals, you mean. Thank the Lord for small mercies! Oh no, the Lord is on his side. How delightful, I should say.”

“Perhaps you will meet someone in Leicestershire whom you can love.”

“Your friend, Lord Harry Graham, perhaps? I should catch cold, setting my cap at a marquis’s son.”

“Oh, a younger son, not at all high in the instep, and, after all, my junior in rank. A mere captain. No, I was not thinking of Harry. He is a sad rattle.”

“His brother, then? Lord Denham?”

“Well, you never know, but I rather think not,” said Charles cautiously. “I daresay we shall meet all sorts of people there.”

“I shall be very happy with Ian.” Rosalind closed the subject. “We dine with Sir Donald and Lady Cressman tonight. You had best get out of those muddy boots.”